The massive iron gates of the Roys estate swept open in silence, closing behind Alex Livingston's BMW M4 like the jaws of a trap.
He drove up the winding, cobblestone driveway, surrounded by dense, ancient woodland that seemed entirely detached from the rest of the capital. The main manor loomed ahead—a towering structure of grey limestone and floor-to-ceiling glass that screamed absolute, generational wealth.
Alex parked in the circular courtyard, his hands tightening on the steering wheel for a brief second before he stepped out. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He had received a personal invitation from Derrick Roys earlier that afternoon—a message delivered directly by a private courier. He still had no idea why he had been invited. His family was wealthy, but compared to the Roys family, they were practically middle-class.
